Meanwhile the _Glenholme's_ crew sat in their boats and watched
their vessel sink. Her bows were by this time below the surface; she
was going fast. Her stern rose high in air, and for about a minute
the stricken and abandoned craft hung poised in this position--her
fore part submerged, her rudder and propeller a hundred feet in air.
Then, with a slow, slanting dive, she vanished from sight. Down
she sank, like many a good ship before her, to rust and rot on the
sandy-tide-swept floor of the Mediterranean.
The smoke which had been sighted previously was no longer visible.
Captain Groome and his crew in their three open boats had now to face
the chances of a wide and lonely sea. Each boat was well equipped,
and stocked with ten days' provisions; nevertheless, the weather
indications were not encouraging. Wind and sea were gradually
increasing, while a heavy bank of clouds in the north-west foretold a
coming storm. The captain shouted a few words of advice and instruction
to the officers in charge of the two other boats.
"It's no use trying for Malta against this northerly gale that's
coming. We'll just have to 'up stick' and run for Tripoli. You're quite
right, Mr. Bolt; the boats may get separated. If the sea becomes very
heavy we must lie to our sea-anchors until it moderates, or until we
get picked up."
The storm came. Black, rain-laden squalls drove across the restless
waters, which a strong and rising wind soon lashed into white-crested
ridges and dark green hollows. It was not safe to carry sail and run
before the gale; so, tethered by their painters to the canvas drags, or
sea-anchors, the boats rode head-on, lifting bravely to the charging
seas. Before nightfall they had drifted far apart and were lost to one
another's sight in the shrouding rain-squalls.
It must be mentioned that next day two of the boats were picked up by a
French steamer and their crews safely landed. This narrative will now
deal, therefore, with what befell Captain Groome and the twelve men who
were with him.
For the next three days these poor castaways suffered considerably from
cold and exposure; moreover, the captain had to endure great pain, his
wounded leg being stiff and swollen. However, on the third morning
after they had abandoned the sinking _Glenholme_ the wind and sea
abated, and the sun rose in a cloudless sky that gave promise of a long
spell of fine weather. Captain Groome gave orders to hoist the sail;
and, impelled by a westerly breeze, they steered for the northern coast
of Africa.
Soon after sunrise land was sighted right ahead--a sandy beach with low
and slightly undulating country in the background. Groome ran the boat
close inshore and then consulted a torn and sea-stained chart.
"Now, men," said he; "what with the gale and strong currents I figure
out that we've been driven a long way east of Tripoli. The breeze is
dying away, so we'll just have to get out the oars and pull to the
westward."
"How far is it to the nearest port, captain?" inquired one of the
sailors.
"Oh, about seventy to eighty miles."
"That's a long pull on short allowance of water," remarked the sailor,
with a rueful glance at their water-keg, which by this time was
three-parts empty. "Is there any fresh water around these parts, sir?"
The skipper gazed attentively along the shore before making answer.
"Well," said he at length, "it's a barren-looking coast, and no
mistake, but I see a clump of trees just beyond that point. Perhaps we
can find water there, and refill our keg. Anyhow, we'll go and see."